The Jefferson Key cm-7

by Steve Berry

  Before appearing on the aft deck he’d instructed that Vitt’s hands be bound behind her back. The other two he’d left alone. One of the crew kicked Vitt’s feet out from under her and she slammed hard to the deck. They then grabbed her by the shoes and head, tossing her into the gibbet, which lay open like a cocoon. Its top was hinged shut and secured with a clamp and pin. Little room existed now for her to struggle.

  He bent down.

  “You killed two of my crew. Now you will experience what my ancestors felt when they died inside one of these.”

  Wind rushed back from the ship’s sleek contours and washed him in moist, cool air. He caught the tart smell of the ocean and knew the sea was not far away. The fog seemed to be lifting, too.

  Excellent.

  He’d been worried that he would not be able to see this woman die.

  KNOX SAW A LIGHT APPEAR IN THE DARKNESS THEN ARC TEN feet to the right. He wasn’t sure who it was, but it didn’t matter.

  He fired straight at it.

  Nothing happened.

  The light continued on its path, splashing into the water, the bulb now submerged. His bullet found no target, but instead ricocheted off the walls, its pings signaling trouble. He’d caught a momentary shadow to the right of where the light found the water. More movement betrayed a position as the light was lifted from the water and shut off.

  That was a target.

  He fired again.

  WYATT DROPPED BACK INTO THE WATER, SLOW AND SILENT. IN the instant after he tossed the light toward Carbonell, he’d locked his fingers onto the edge of a chute and pulled himself upward. The last place he wanted to be when bullets were ricocheting was near the floor.

  Gravity sent slugs directly that way.

  Through the goggles he watched Knox and Carbonell. Each carried a gun and a flashlight.

  Even odds.

  He used the rising surge of water to ease his retreat toward the tunnel from which they’d come. He realized that neither of them would risk switching on their lights or speaking, and firing wildly in the dark was risky.

  He wondered how long they’d stand there.

  Did they comprehend the danger?

  Escaping through the chutes, as he and Malone had done, would not be possible with the rising tide. Fighting the flow of water inside the tight confines would be like trying to swim up a fast-moving stream, no way to hold your breath long enough to make it out.

  They’d each worked themselves into a corner, from which there was no escape.

  Only low tide would offer a respite.

  But they’d both be dead by then.

  MALONE CREPT DOWN THE MIDDECK, CAUTIOUS AND QUIET, using the open doorways and darkened rooms for cover. He passed a theater, dining room, and staterooms. He’d noticed no cameras, yet every nerve in his body tinged, his finger on the gun’s trigger, ready to react.

  The passageway ended at a grand salon, a juxtaposition of conservative appointments in wenge wood, ivory, and leather. A baby grand piano anchored one corner. Everything was sleek and polished, like the yacht itself. He had to see what was happening on the aft deck. The exterior walls were lined with elongated windows, so he crouched low and made his way toward the glass exit doors, where he spotted a deck, pool, and people.

  A spiral stairway to his right led up.

  He slowly climbed the steep risers, which opened onto a small sundeck overlooking the ship’s stern. He noted their position. Center of the river, both banks visible in the distance, a sun rising ahead, toward the east, the fog all but gone. He glanced toward the bow and spotted open water. They were entering the sound, which meant the ocean was not far away.

  He stayed low and made his way to the aft railing.

  Staring down, he spotted Stephanie and Shirely Kaiser, two men with guns, four more standing nearby, Quentin Hale-

  And Cassiopeia.

  Sealed inside an iron gibbet.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  CASSIOPEIA WAS NEARING PANIC. HER HANDS WERE BOUND, HER body encased in iron straps. Hale’s men were busy tying a line to the top of the gibbet. She stared at Stephanie, whose eyes signaled that there was little she could do, either.

  “What’s the point of this,” Shirley screamed out. “Why do this, Quentin?”

  Hale faced Kaiser. “This is what pirates do.”

  “Killing unarmed women?” Stephanie asked.

  “Teaching enemies a lesson.”

  The men securing the line stood.

  Hale drew close. “Kings and governors loved to use the gibbet on us, so occasionally we reciprocated. But instead of hanging them up to die, we dragged them until they drowned. After, we cut the rope, and down to the bottom they went.”

  Hale signaled and his men lifted the iron cage from the deck.

  MALONE COULD DELAY NO LONGER. TUMULTUOUS EMOTIONS churned inside him. He raised his gun and prepared to fire-but before he could snap the trigger a pair of strong hands locked onto his shoulders and whirled him back from the railing.

  One of the crew.

  A swift kick to his right arm jarred the gun from his grip.

  Fury welled inside him.

  No time for this.

  He planted a kick to the gut, which doubled his opponent forward. He brought his knee upward into the face, righting the man’s spine. He then jammed his elbow into the bridge of the nose, snapping the neck backward. Two swipes from his fists and the man spilled over the railing, falling the fifteen or so feet to the deck below.

  The men hoisting Cassiopeia heard the thud and momentarily stopped. Hale heard it, too, and whirled, then glanced upward and spotted the source of the problem.

  Malone searched for the gun.

  “Toss her,” he heard Hale scream.

  He found the gun, snatched it up, then leaped over the railing, dropping to the deck below. He hit, rolled, and fired at the two men with guns, dropping both.

  He sprang to his feet and raced ahead.

  Hale tried to cut him off, a gun in his hand, but he shot the older man once, the bullet tearing into the chest and hurling the body backward to the deck.

  He kept moving.

  “Go,” Stephanie yelled. “Help her.”

  The four men reached the railing with the gibbet.

  Too late for him to use the gun to stop them.

  They tossed Cassiopeia into the sea.

  WYATT RETRACED HIS ROUTE TO WHERE THE ROPE WAITED. The water had risen to waist-high. Shortly, the upper chutes would complete the flooding. Only fitting that these two meet their end here, both of them so smug. Carbonell counting on her backup to save her, Knox thinking he had an easy opportunity to eliminate two problems. Even more fitting that they were both armed with lights and weapons, neither of them any good to them.

  Carbonell was responsible for the needless deaths of several agents. Knox had personally killed a few, too.

  For that, they both had to pay.

  Knox had also tried to kill the president. And though Wyatt wasn’t a big fan of the U.S. government, he was an American.

  And always would be.

  These two problems would end here. By the time they realized their dire predicament and decided to save their hides, it would be too late.

  Only a few more minutes remained.

  High tide had arrived.

  Through the night-vision goggles, he spotted the rope.

  He grabbed hold and hauled himself up.

  Once there, he yanked the line from the hole and walked away.

  CASSIOPEIA WAS FALLING. SHE TRIED TO BRACE HERSELF WITH her feet, anticipating the water’s impact. Her hands were of no use and she reminded herself to grab a breath and keep sucking air for as long as she could. Unfortunately, the tight confines offered her no opportunity to use her legs, each of which was encased separately. The gibbet was snug, and the latch mechanism was nowhere close to where she could reach it. Besides, it operated from the outside.

  Just before they’d tossed her overboard she’d heard what sounded like gunf
ire and Stephanie yelling Go. Help her.

  What was happening back there?

  MALONE FIRED TWO SHOTS AT THE FOUR MEN, SCATTERING THEM. He then tossed the gun aside and leaped from the railing, hurling his body outward and bear-hugging the falling gibbet.

  His added weight increased momentum and, together, he and Cassiopeia smacked the sea.

  SOMETHING HAD SLAMMED INTO THE GIBBET, STARTLING CASSIOPEIA. A

  body. Male. Together they hit the water.

  Then she saw the face and relief poured through her.

  Cotton.

  MALONE HELD TIGHT. NO WAY HE WAS LETTING GO. THEY teetered on the surface, tossing in the surf, as the line’s slack played out behind the yacht.

  “Glad you finally made it,” she said.

  His gaze found the latch mechanism.

  The gibbet was starting to sink.

  He reached out but the line went taut.

  And they were dragged through the water.

  HALE WAS STUNNED. THE INTRUDER HAD SHOT HIM, BUT THANKFULLY in the chest. The body armor he’d donned earlier before leading the defense of the prison had saved him, though his ribs throbbed. He’d dropped to the deck, but not before seeing the man leap from the railing toward the gibbet.

  He brought himself to his knees and sucked a few deep breaths.

  He turned for his men, who were nowhere to be seen.

  Instead Stephanie Nelle stood with a gun aimed straight at him.

  “I told you Cotton Malone was trouble,” she said.

  MALONE KEPT A DEATH GRIP ON THE GIBBET, HIS RIGHT hand finding one of the rounded vertical supports to which the flat iron was welded. A shower of color burst before his eyes. They were skimming in and out of the water about a hundred feet behind Adventure, in the center portion of the sloop’s long wake.

  He gulped another breath and yelled to Cassiopeia, “Breathe.”

  “Like I’m not trying.”

  He had more room to maneuver than she did. The sloop’s speed allowed them to hydroplane for a few precious seconds. He realized that once the speed was reduced they would sink and be dragged underwater.

  His heart rocketed in his chest.

  He had to find the latch.

  CASSIOPEIA WAS SUCKING IN AS MUCH WATER AS AIR, TRYING to spit it out and keep her lungs dry. She was rotating her upper body inside the gibbet as they rocketed in and out of the surf. A sharp pain pierced her cramped calves and she told herself to relax. She longed for speed, since slowing down meant sinking. Hale was toying with them. Enjoying their predicament.

  “I’m… going to… get you… out,” Cotton told her as they surfaced one more time, his voice coming in staccato gasps.

  “My hands,” she managed to say.

  She couldn’t swim long if she were bound.

  HALE STARED AT STEPHANIE NELLE.

  “Are you going to shoot me?” he asked her.

  “I don’t have to.”

  A strange reply.

  She motioned with the gun and he turned.

  Shirley Kaiser held another of the automatic rifles his men had toted. Her bandaged hand supported the heavy weapon, the other was placed firmly on the trigger.

  Men appeared from the main salon.

  Some with guns.

  Finally.

  MALONE’S HAND FOUND THE LATCH. HE TWISTED, THEN YANKED. Nothing gave. He yanked again, freeing the locking pin.

  The gibbet opened and Cassiopeia flew out.

  He released his hold and joined her in the water.

  The gibbet disappeared ahead, bucking across the surface.

  He snatched a breath and plunged downward, his eyes searching for movement. He saw her and wrapped an arm around her chest and, together, they kicked upward.

  Both of them coughed water.

  He kept them afloat with strong kicks and a sweep of his right arm.

  “Grab a breath and I’ll get your hands free,” he told her.

  They dropped below the surface long enough for him to peel off the thick tape that bound her wrists, then they surfaced and treaded water. Adventure was two hundred yards away, its sails unfurled to the morning air. All was quiet except for the wind and the sea swirling around them.

  Then a new sound.

  Low and rhythmic.

  A deep bass growing in intensity.

  He turned to see four helicopter gunships powering their way.

  About time.

  They swept across in formation, one lingering above, the other three circling the yacht.

  “You okay?”

  Edwin Davis’s voice through a loudspeaker.

  They both gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Hold tight,” Davis said.

  HALE HEARD HELICOPTER ROTORS AND LOOKED UP TO SEE THREE U.S. Army gunships above Adventure’s masts, circling like wolves.

  The sight enraged him.

  This ungrateful government, which his family had dutifully served, would not leave him alone. What had happened with Knox? Or the man named Wyatt? Did they have what he needed to fortify his letter of marque? And why weren’t Bolton, Surcouf, and Cogburn here to fight the battle with him? Probably because the three cowards had sold him out.

  Stephanie Nelle laid down a barrage of fire at the main salon, obliterating the windscreens, ripping through the fiberglass sheathing.

  His men disappeared back inside.

  He faced Kaiser and her gun. “It’s not that easy, Shirley.”

  He imagined himself Black Beard, facing Lieutenant Maynard on the deck of another ship named Adventure. That fight had also been close-quartered and to the death. But Black Beard had been armed. Hale’s gun lay on the deck four feet away. He had to get to it. His gaze darted between Shirley to his right and Nelle to his left.

  Just one opportunity, that’s all he needed.

  Shirley’s gun exploded.

  Bullets tore into his protective vest. The next salvo shredded his legs. Blood poured up his throat and out his mouth. He tumbled to the ground, each nerve in his body bursting into a hot flame of burning pain.

  His face betrayed the agony.

  The last thing he saw was Shirley Kaiser pointing the gun at his head and saying, “Killing you was easy, Quentin.”

  CASSIOPEIA HEARD THE DISTANCE TAP OF GUNFIRE. SHE THEN saw two people leap from the aft deck of Adventure.

  “Stephanie and Shirley just made their escape,” Davis said from above, through the helicopter’s PA system.

  They kept treading water.

  Adventure’s sails had caught the wind. No gaps existed between them. They worked as a single airfoil, propelling the striking green hull through the choppy waves. She was like the buccaneer of old, sailing away to fight another day. But this wasn’t the 17th or 18th century, and Danny Daniels was one pissed-off president. These four army gunships were not here to escort the ship back to port.

  More people leaped off the yacht.

  “The crew,” Cotton said. “You know why they’re doing that.”

  She did.

  The choppers drifted back.

  Flames erupted from the sides of two of the aircraft. Four missiles rocketed from their launchers. Seconds later they pierced Adventure, exploding their ordnance. Black, acrid smoke rose skyward. Like a wounded animal, the sloop canted to one side, then another, its sails unfurling and losing their strength.

  A final rocket from the third chopper ended its misery.

  The yacht erupted into flames, then sank, the Atlantic Ocean swallowing the offering in a single gulp.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  NOVA SCOTIA

  11:30 AM

  WYATT CLIMBED BACK INTO THE CHASM BENEATH FORT DOMINION. Five hours ago he’d left the island and returned to shore, ditching the stolen boat near Chester and renting another. He’d also purchased a few tools to go into his knapsack and waited until the tide changed.

  One last thing to do.

  He dropped to the rocky floor.

  As when he and Malone had visited, only a few inches of water
remained. He switched on a flashlight and started for the junction point. Halfway, he encountered the first bloated corpse.

  Maybe late thirties, early forties, dark hair, plain face, one he recognized.

  The quartermaster.

  Clifford Knox.

  Lying spine-first on the rocky floor, eyes closed.

  He continued on and found the five symbols. No sign, as yet, of Carbonell, but there were two other tunnels and no way out. Her body could be anywhere. It could even have been drawn out to sea through one of the chutes.

  He stared up at the symbol in the ceiling.

  He hoped Malone had been right and that the triangle did indeed mark the spot. He rolled one of the larger rocks close. The ceiling was low, maybe eight feet up, so not much of a boost would be needed. He removed the hammer and chisel he’d brought with him and chipped the joint that outlined the irregular-shaped block. Nearly two centuries of tidal action had hardened the mortar, but finally it gave way. He stepped back as the rock slammed to the floor, splashing water, cracking into several pieces.

  He angled the flashlight upward into the niche.

  A foot up from the ceiling line a shelf had been carved into the stone. Something gleamed back from the probe of his beam. Shiny. Reflective. Green-tinted. He laid the light down, angling it upward and grabbed hold of what he’d discovered.

  Slick.

  Then he realized.

  Glass.

  He slid it from its perch.

  Not heavy, maybe three or four pounds. A solid chunk, perhaps a foot square, its surface and edges rounded smooth. He bent down closer to the flashlight and splashed water onto its surface, rinsing away a layer of filth.

  Something was sealed inside.

  Though blurred, the image was unmistakable.

  Two sheets of browned paper.

  He laid the container on top of the stone that had acted as his step. He found another smaller rock and, with two blows, shattered the glass.

  For the first time in more than 175 years, the paper met fresh air.